


The Decay of Lying

by jenfurlee (orphan_account)



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-15 04:59:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jenfurlee
Summary: Sequel to Folie à Trois. Franky Doyle struggles to heal as she grieves the loss of her golden girl.Title comes from Oscar Wilde's essay (1889) which was written in response to Mark Twain's "On the Decay of the Art of Lying." (1880).





	1. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The wise thing is for us diligently to train ourselves to lie thoughtfully, judiciously; to lie with a good object, and not an evil one; to lie for others' advantage, and not our own; to lie healingly, charitably, humanely, not cruelly, hurtfully, maliciously; to lie gracefully and graciously, not awkwardly and clumsily; to lie firmly, frankly, squarely, with head erect, not haltingly, tortuously, with pusillanimous mien, as being ashamed of our high calling." - Mark Twain, 1880

The morning sun broke through the blinds much earlier than Franky had hoped. She found herself frequently praying for the nights to last a little longer, leaving her painted in the moonlight. She didn’t have to pretend that she was still functioning when she was at home by herself. There was no hiding behind a painted smile at work when Imogen pulled her aside with concerned look on her face. 

“How are you doing, Franky?” She asked, eyes full of compassion.  
  
“I’d be doing a whole lot better if I could file these without you checking on me every five minutes, Festler,” She replied, shoving several forest green folders into her work bag. Her boss’s smile was enough to let her know that she had managed to make her words sound enough like playful Franky.  
  
“Don’t forget about that interview, it’s-”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, tomorrow morning at nine. I will be there.” She pulled her bag over her shoulder, approaching the door to her office where Imogen was currently standing. Somehow the woman had gotten Franky an interview with a firm that wanted her to consult on programs for women nearing parole. The opportunity would allow Franky to provide legal aid to inmates. Who better to help reach the women than a former prisoner herself? Most employers would immediately reject a convicted violent criminal, Festler on the other hand did not even bat an eyelash. She saw Franky’s past not as a hindrance, but instead as a way to reach more people in need.  
  
“You’d tell me if you needed anything?” Imogen asked with her arms crossed over her chest. It was clear that she did not intend to move until receiving an all clear from her young employee. Franky had to admit, the woman was one of the nicest people she had ever met. Her caring heart was what made her take on all of the hopeless cases that Franky loved so much.  
  
“I promise,” she smiled. Her performance must have been believable, because the shorter woman moved away from the door to allow Franky through. Lies came easier and easier these days.

Her head throbbed as she blinked back to reality and out of the foggy haze of sleep. The prescription bottle lay sideways on the coffee table, lid still tossed carelessly to the side. She had given in around two in the morning and taken a second sleeping pill after tossing for hours. Groggily, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes to check the time on her phone. 

12:11pm

“Shit!” She swore loudly noticing three missed calls from her boss. She swiped to redial as her clouded mind struggled to concoct yet another lie.  
  
“Please tell me you’re alright.” She snapped to answer.  
  
“Imogen, I am so sorry,” expertly she began to weave her tale of food poisoning and a long night spent sleeping on the bathroom floor. She heard the woman sigh with relief on the other end.  
  
“I told the interviewer that I messed up the date, and that you were visiting a client. They rescheduled for tomorrow at ten.”  
  
“Thank you so much, you have no idea how much I appreciate this.” She pinched the bridge of her nose as she felt the tears begin to sting her eyes.  
  
“Don’t make me do that again,” she threatened. “Now get some rest, and try to stay hydrated. Do I need to bring you anything?”  
  
“Nah, all good. I will be in early tomorrow.”  
  
“Take care Franky.”  
  
“Always.” 

After hanging up the phone, Franky stood to make her way towards the bathroom. A shower to wash away the current guilt she was feeling for lying to so many: Imogen, her father, Liz. As long as she told herself she was strong, she would be. Even if she was dying on the inside.  
  
She wasn’t sure what possessed her to pass the bathroom and continue down the undisturbed hallway. She hadn’t entered the bedroom in the several weeks following, instead pretending that the entire side of the home didn’t exist. She’d taken to sleeping on the couch, and treating the living room table as a closet. She knew that the layers of clothes had kept the delicate note that had been left there hidden out of her sight. The weeks passed on, and nothing had really changed. It was as if her girl was away on a business trip. Her heart somehow contained the small glimmer of hope that she would be back.  
  
Suddenly, she turned the doorknob to the untouched bedroom. It was exactly how she had left it the last morning. The plush bed was made and strewn with several colorful pillows. Sunrays were falling across the area rug, painting the room in a beautiful soft glow. Franky stepped in further, allowing her finger pads to brush over the polished dresser, several different items of jewelry lay untouched. She then continued on to the closet, and opened the door. Once the door was open, the scent hit Franky like a tidal wave. Her eyes fluttered closed at the pain that shot through her chest. If she tried hard enough, Franky could almost picture her there getting ready for work. The beautifully tailored clothes hung from their hangers. All of the clothes never seemed to look anything like they did when hugging the woman’s soft curves. Franky knew that the blonde’s confidence could make anything she chose to wear would look good. They now just appeared to be lifeless garments without her.  
  
It was then the tears finally came. She collapsed to her knees on the carpeted wardrobe floor. She sobbed loudly, unafraid of anyone knowing of the anguish coursing through her. They didn’t know about the guilt she felt on her shoulders every moment of her waking day. They didn’t know that she wasn’t coping. 

But most importantly, they didn’t know that she killed Bridget Westfall.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But Hester Prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity, and for so long a period not merely estranged, but outlawed, from society, had habituated herself to such latitude of speculation as was altogether foreign to the clergyman. She had wandered, without rule or guidance, in a moral wilderness. . . . The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers,—stern and wild ones,—and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss" - The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1850)
> 
>    
> **Warning, mentions of self-harm as well as physical and verbal abuse** // This is one of the heaviest works I have ever completed.

It wasn’t until several hours later that Franky’s tears had finally run out. She hadn’t moved from the safety of the perfumed clothes. The cocoon of the small space was somehow comforting; it reminded her of the nights of her youth spent hidden under the safety of her bed.  
  
Franky had very quickly discovered that if she wedged herself back far enough against the wall, she was just out of her mother’s reach; a fact she had discovered not long after she had broken Franky’s arm while yanking her out of bed in the middle of the night. The cast was tight and itchy after three weeks of wear. Pain was such a relative term. She’d seen kids on the school yard crumble to the ground from a mere scrape on the gravel. It took everything inside of her young self not to mock their weakness. They had no idea how she had mastered the art of taking a slap to the face without a sound escaping her mouth. They had no idea what real pain was.  
  
It only took her a few minutes to pluck up the courage to begin. She’d found the supplies around the house with relative ease; so many inmates had asked her to fashion them on several occasions, it came back to her quickly. She sat on the closed lid of the toilet with her leg propped up against the edge of the bathtub. Then she brushed the pad of her thumb over the delicate skin of her thigh once more before she began.  
  
Spirals had been something Franky had doodled on papers since she was a child. She loved the hypnotizing and calming effect they had. It wasn’t until she had been locked up in Wentworth that they began to hold a different meaning: shame and guilt. She would never change. The whole world should have been able to see it, and that is why it was etched deeply into her skin. That way they would know how worthless she really was. 

It was Bridget who had suggested Franky have the original prison tat covered up. She mentioned it politely across the dining room table one night at dinner.  
  
“You’re free, you should feel free.” She reminded the former inmate before reaching her hand out to graze the tattoo gently.  
  
“Not technically free, not yet.” Franky was still six months shy of experiencing true and absolute freedom. The kind that allowed her to travel the world she had never been able to before.  
  
“Well you’re figuratively free, and you deserve to feel it.” The blonde always had a way of finding exactly what her girlfriend needed to hear. 

But one year later, and Franky knew she deserved to wear the mark on her skin again after everything she had done. The skin was red where she had painstakingly pressed the needle passed the thin layer, permanently branding her flesh once more. She ran her fingertips over the spiral causing herself to hiss at the immediate stinging she felt shooting to her spine. It did little to cover up the pain in her heart. Perhaps Bridget was wrong all along, she was not filled with hope, but instead despair. It was hopeless to think a girl built from tragedy could ever claw her way out of the pit of despair she was born in. 

I’m not a good person.  
  
Yes, you are. 

"No, I'm not" she whispered to the empty room. "You were wrong all along, Gidge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.” Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (1963)


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The whitish light of the window-panes was softly wavering. The pieces of furniture seemed more frozen in their places, about to lose themselves in the shadow as in an ocean of darkness. The fire was out, the clock went on ticking, and Emma vaguely wondered at this calm of all things while within herself there was such a tumult." Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert (1856)
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in need of a beta reader. If anyone is interested, please let me know.

On nothing but luck and a prayer, Franky aced her interview, and she was due to start consulting with inmates as early as Tuesday of that next week. After they had left, Franky shut herself away in her small office. She’d noticed if she shuffled the papers around her on her desk every so often, Imogen left her to her own devices. Truthfully, she’d had all her work filed for the week by Wednesday as she was prone to do. When the hour finally came, she packed up her laptop and pulled her bag across her shoulder.  
  
“Any plans for the weekend?” Festler caught her before she had the opportunity to sneak away unnoticed. She grew to hate evening pleasantries more and more.  
  
“It’s going to be a wild one, boss. I’m thinking about picking up a bottle of wine on my way home to go with the pasta I plan on making.” Her eyes went wide with sarcasm.  
  
“See you Monday.”  
  
“Cheers.” 

Instead she ended up at a bar with two beers, soon three, in her gut.  
  
“Rough day?” the voice with glasses from beside her spoke. Franky hadn’t noticed her sit down, but truth be told that wasn’t surprising. She was missing a lot of things lately. She simply nodded in response before taking a sip from the bottle. The girl’s face was smooth like porcelain as she cupped her small hands around the tumbler in front of her. Her soft brown hair fell into her face, the large waves settling just below her jaw. “Sorry, I had a shit day, and I just figured maybe someone drinking at four in the afternoon might be too.” A nervous blush started to form on her cheeks. Franky nodded in response, taking pity on the girl watching her gulp back whiskey.  
  
“What happened to you?”  
  
“I came out to my parents today,” she confessed, going on to explain the whole ordeal while Franky drank and listened on. Initially she had wanted to help the girl navigate such a pivotal moment. But the more they drank and talked, the more Franky wanted to take her home and take those glasses off. So that’s what she did. The two shared kisses through drunken giggles in the back of the Uber ride back to the house.  
  
“What’s your name?” Glasses asked as they passed the threshold, lips still centimeters from her own.  
  
“Francesca.” She wasn’t even quite sure what made her say it.  
  
“That’s a beautiful.” Franky pulled them onto the couch, finally removing the tortoise shell frames from the beautiful face beneath her. “I’m Mia.” she smiled softly, her blue eyes glistening up into green. Suddenly Franky’s stomach turned, and the room around her came into clear view. How had she not seen how blue her eyes were at the bar? She sat up sharply.  
“I can’t do this. I’m sorry. You should go.” She shook her head back and forth.  
  
“What?” the girl stuttered, lost in confusion. Her clothes were rustled from their brief embrace.  
  
“I said go,” Franky repeated, firmer this time. 

‘Poor Mia, this isn’t your fault’ Franky thought to herself. 

Everything was going fine until she saw those crystal blue orbs staring up to her. She wasn’t ready to stare back into the hue again so soon.  
  
“Francesca...I’m,”  
  
“You need to get the fuck out.” She spat as she pointed towards the front door. Mia jumped at the words before following through with her words.  
  
“I’m sorry.” She muttered before slipping out the door without another glance back. 

'You were too good for me anyway, Mia.' 

She collapsed back onto the couch with her face now buried in her shaking hands. What the fuck was she even doing? Before she could fully fall back down the rabbit hole of her thoughts, a piercing cat’s cry broke the silence around her.  
  
Bridget’s orange tabby cat Fred had emerged from the sanctuary of Bridget’s former home office. The feline was cranky and old. Since recent events, he had sunk further into his crotchety personality. He preferred to ignore Franky’s existence entirely unless it was to summon her for food. They were mere roommates now that the glue holding them together no longer was in the picture. She knew that Fred would never truly understand what had happened to Bridget, and her heart ached even more knowing this.  
Sighing, she rose from her heap on the sofa to dump a small amount of food into the waiting cat bowl. Fred sniffed the bowl before looking back up to Franky and releasing a dissatisfied howl.  
  
“That’s all you get, so eat.” She stated sternly to the old man. He grumbled yet again. Giving up, she moved to fall back onto the couch. The cat followed again, mewling his discontent.  
  
“She’s not coming back, you asshole! She’s dead!” She screamed at the feline before tossing a throw pillow at his form. He fled back to the safety of the office away from her and her chaos. How could the world keep carrying on as if nothing had happened?  
  
Unable to control herself any longer, the brunette flew towards the kitchen, and then began tossing anything she could get her hands on towards towards the wall. The sound of shattering glasses and plates somehow managing to calm her drumming heart. She allowed herself to sink back into the anger, like a wave pulling her out to sea. Finally, her searching hand came back empty from the waiting cabinet. She had managed to destroy the entire set and leave it shattered in pieces on the tile. Panting, she slid to the floor, exhausted, with her back pressed against the refrigerator. There was nowhere lower to go than rock bottom.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The Awakening, Kate Chopin (1899)

Franky had somehow forgotten the mysterious pull of the sea after three years on the inside. The day of her release she sat in silence, with her feet in the cool sand.  
  
“What is she saying to you?” the gentle voice beside her woke her from her daze of thoughts. “The sea, what is she saying to you?”  
  
“The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.” The quote caused the petite woman beside her to wrap both of her arms around Franky’s form.  
  
“Like this?” her golden girl asked. Franky nodded in response, her eyes nearly blinded by the brightness of her smile.  
  
“Just like this,” she whispered as she sank further into the comforting touch. 

She awoke minutes later, Fred watching her sleep from his post on the arm of the couch. Miraculously, he didn’t make a sound. His wise eyes were locked on the soft blanket that she had covered herself with. Hesitantly, Franky raised the edge of the blanket. Fred took only a few seconds before he took the invitation, and snuggled up against her. 

“I miss her so much,” Franky whimpered. Just then the cat lay his head against her chest as if to say, ‘Me too.’.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained." - Bilal Nasir Khan

“Franky!” Tess’ voice broke the silence of the house as she launched herself into the lap of her big sister. “Why are you sleeping on the couch?” Slowly Franky was able to blink the sleep from her eyes as the six year old came into view. Her eyes felt swollen and sore from her endless tears.  
  
“Tess, why don’t you go find where Fred went off to?” the gruff voice distracted the young girl from her target. She quickly bounced down the hall to pester the poor old feline. “Franky…” the stout man slowly approached the couch as if she was a wild animal liable to spook. The shattered pile of dishes lay discarded in a heap.  
  
“I’m fine, dad,” her voice broke, her own words did little convince even herself. Alan Doyle sat with little grace beside his eldest daughter, wrapping her thin form in his sturdy arms.  
  
“No you’re not, but you will be.” He rocked her softly as if she was a small child once again. It felt almost comical at first, a woman in her thirties seeking comfort from her dad. “You’re a fighter, bub. I reckon that girl of yours wouldn’t want to see you like this.” Franky’s eyes brimmed with tears even at the mere mention of her. The lump in her throat prevented her from responding. “She’d want you to be happy.” He whispered as she cried freely. A small hand suddenly covered her knee protectively. When Franky opened her eyes to meet those of her little sister, the soft bell-like voice began:

“Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul  
And sings the tune without the words  
And never stops at all.” 

“That was beautiful, Tess,” Alan smiled at his youngest.  
  
“No, it was Emily Dickinson.” Tess responded matter-of-factly as she crawled into the arms of her family.  
  
“Where did you learn that?” Franky asked her eyebrows creased in confusion.  
  
“Bridget taught it to me.” Her breath was gone at the revelation. The small girl nestled against her sister’s chest to hear her beating heart.  
  
“Thank you, Tess.” Franky whispered before delivering a kiss to the top of her sister’s head.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The years that are gone seem like dreams—if one might go on sleeping and dreaming—but to wake up and find—oh! well! Perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life.” - The Awakening, Kate Chopin (1899)

She couldn’t remember the last time she had put on her running shoes. They had been tossed carelessly into the back of the coat closet in an attempt to clean up the house. She’d finally managed to rehome her clothing from its home on the table to a closet in the office. She still found herself unable to face the bedroom, but someday she would be.  
  
Her limbs felt stiff as she hit the pavement at a slower than normal pace; she knew her near nine month hiatus would definitely affect her speed. The first time out, she had only made it a few paces past a kilometer before she was bent at the street corner panting for breath. A hand patting her tattooed arm snapped her from her state. Quickly she shot to stand upright, pulling her headphones from off of her ears  
  
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. You just looked like you could use this,” the tall, fit woman extended a water bottle in Franky’s direction. The brunette accepted the gift quickly, gulping the cool liquid down graciously.  
  
“Thanks. I guess I’m more out of shape than I thought,” she joked. The water bottle’s owner turned out to be an incredible gorgeous brunette with a killer jaw. Franky could only imagine how ridiculous she looked as her cheeks burned red.  
  
“No worries, I’m Stella.” Fit woman extended her hand to shake.  
  
“Franky. I’m not normally this pathetic, I swear.” She still hadn’t managed to catch her breath.  
  
“You’ll be able to keep up in no time. Let me know if you need a running buddy” she smiled. Franky’s hand moved to return the bottle of water, but Stella shook her head. “Keep it. You owe me, Franky.” The tall woman had taken off back down the sidewalk before she had a chance to respond.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.” J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan (1911)

It took months of practice and pushing herself, but finally Franky felt her legs growing stronger as her legs gained their muscle back. She slowly sank back into the rhythm of readying herself each morning. She felt renewed with the wind at her face.  
  
She had moved to a small loft near the beach, choosing to find solstice in the sound of the waves. She was finally on her own for the first time in her life, minus the cranky feline she had grown to love.  
  
The ache was still there, dully sitting in her chest. It had lessened slightly, but Franky knew it would never ever really go away for good. Every time on her way towards the shore, she passed the spot at the corner where the large elm tree still stood, she could feel herself go numb. 

She re-dialed the phone number for the third time in five minutes, praying that her girlfriend would actually pick up. She had already left for work when Franky had awoken on the couch.  
  
“Please, Gidge...” she muttered under her breath when it went to voicemail once more. “Please call me back, or listen to this voicemail...It’s you, and it’s always been you. I fucking love you.” She cried desperately into the phone before it beeped the end of her allotted time. Franky tossed her phone onto the dining room table, finally giving up. 

That’s where she spotted the note in Bridget’s perfectly formed script. The tears began to burn down her cheeks as she felt her heart split in two. 

Her phone rang hours later, sending her into a panic to answer.  
  
“Gidge?” she asked hopefully without checking the ID.  
  
“No, Franky, it’s Vera… I’m so sorry...” 

She had died on impact when her car hit the solid elm. If Franky had driven home from Legal Aid instead of Erica’s house, where she had just ended things, she would have seen the whole thing. The doctor had the nerve to say ‘At least she didn’t feel any pain’. Franky couldn’t hold back her scoff. They didn’t know how much pain she had put Bridget Westfall through. But they also didn’t know how much joy that they had experienced together through living room dance parties, burned dinners, and hour long showers. They didn’t know how much hope Bridget Westfall had given the young woman, resigned to her fate to self destruct. She wasn’t the same scared little girl she once was.  
  
Franky finally came to a stop when her feet reached the certain point in the sand she was searching for. She paused to catch her breath, sitting down to rest in the sand. The sunrise was breaking through the shoreline ahead as the gentle sea breeze cooled her heated skin. She brought her hand down to her forearm where the newly inked tattoo was engraved. 

You’re free

"But . . . the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the world’s scorn and bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed over, and looked upon with awe, and yet with reverence, too.", Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter (1850)


End file.
